


Dinner Date

by Hancockles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Belly Kink, Food Kink, Gen, M/M, Stuffing, Teasing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred eats; the Hunter is quite transfixed by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Date

The house is nothing special -- just one of the many dark and cramped rowhouses that line the streets of Yharnam. But they keep it clean, and on this day every window is thrown open in the hope of ushering in what scant light finds its way down the alley. The effect is calming; it looks to be a cozy and livable space. A home, maybe.

And it is into this hopeful home that Alfred comes, as a colleague and honored guest.. The Hunter’s relieved to see him in the sunlight; he’s as much a picture of beauty as he ever was. (Though the Hunter won’t admit that to anyone, certainly not to the man himself. Such an emotion gets packed deeply away.) The pretense was dinner and small talk, both of which Alfred proved to adore. Seated at the Hunter’s modest kitchen table with equally modest flatware and a meal cooked with careful precision, the evening begins.

There is small talk, of course; of the weather, the location of the house, the garden in the front (“Impeccably tended!” Alfred says, to which the Hunter blushes) and, finally, the real reason for the visit. The Hunter is new to the job, and unsure. They’ve seen Alfred’s raw strength and ability and his fervor. They want it for themselves.

“Maybe we can come to an arrangement,” the Hunter says carefully. These days, many hunters pride themselves on their ability to work alone. To even suggest partnering up could be an issue, but the Hunter thinks the advantages of having a well-muscled figure on their side are worth the risk. They’ve put all their cooking efforts to task and have come up with what they hope will be an invaluable bargaining chip. Good food is hard to come by, and luckily they have a talent. And one knows what they say about the quickest way to a man’s heart.

“It would be fruitful for myself -- for both of us, I think -- to have someone to rely on,” says the Hunter. They set two plates down with a ginger touch.

“Perhaps,” says Alfred, though his attention is on the bird in front of him. It’s nothing extravagant -- one of the many fowl of smallish size available for purchase in the nearby market. Though the Hunter didn’t often brag the cooking of it is nearly perfect. Crisp skin, tender middle. Some potatoes bring the dish to a full and satisfying completion.

Alfred’s nearly bristling with excitement. It’s good to see him like this. He takes his gloves off finger by finger, considering the meal in front of him. The Hunter is entranced by the careful and practiced movements.

Alfred’s fingernails are like ten tiny beacons. Unusually smooth and clean for a person in Yharnam, let alone for a person in this particular profession. They’re well shaped, with what the Hunter imagines is the nacreous sheen of pearls. Their own fingers, which had been caked in blood and grime, are now covered with fat and animal grease. Cleanliness is next to godliness, they think miserably. They hide their hands under the table.

The Hunter isn’t sure if they should pick the conversation back up, so they nervously knead the cloth of their pant leg between thumb and forefinger. Alfred forgoes utensils and, with some measure of brutality, relieves the cooked bird of a leg. He bites down and moans. The Hunter feels a confusing jolt pass through them.

“You know,” Alfred says pleasantly, around a mouthful of food. “This is quite good. You made this?”  
The Hunter nods.

“I didn’t expect you to be such a chef but-” he swallows. “Why shouldn’t you have hobbies, hm?”

The Hunter feels themselves trying to pull out of a wide-eyed stare. “Yes. Thank you.”

“You must give me some pointers,” says Alfred. There’s more food in his mouth, but he’s speaking around it so effortlessly as to be impressive. “Somehow I never managed to pick that particular skill up.” A few thoughtful bites, and then: “I was always better at eating food than preparing it.”

The Hunter remembers themselves enough to laugh. Jokes are funny when there’s a kernel of truth in them, the Hunter thinks for no particular reason. Something about the motion of Alfred’s mouth is extremely hypnotic and intensely alluring. Heat’s pooling in their groin. Frustrating and inexplicable, all of it. Back to the matter at hand; the whole reason they invited him here.

“In any case, Alfred, I was hoping we could strike some kind of-” It’s Alfred’s attentive eyes that stop them this time. He’s got his chin propped up in his palm. It’s the kind of earnest stare that makes the Hunter weak in the knees. Thankfully, they were already sitting.

The Hunter begins again: “If we could, perhaps, if it pleases you, we could rendezvous-”

Alfred’s picked up a leg of the bird and now he bites. The meat comes away easily, cleaved by perfect straight teeth. A bit of it remains behind on Alfred’s nose. He swipes his thumb across his nose in a practiced movement and, offering the Hunter a brief and tantalizing view of pink tongue between white teeth, sucks the digit clean. “I’m afraid I’m losing your thread, good hunter.”

Inquisitive hands feel the urge to start roaming. The Hunter swallows a lump in their throat. “Perhaps I’m not feeling quite myself today,” they say.

“Eating something would help,” Alfred says, pointedly eyeing their untouched meal.

“Hm? Oh, I’m not one for eating these days.”

Alfred licks his lips. “May I?” He asks the question as though asking for some unspeakable favor. His finger is already touching the side of the plate, ready to spirit it away to his side of the table. The Hunter has barely finished nodding and already Alfred is digging in. He only stops when he notices the Hunter eyeing him.

His stomach is visibly full. Their eyes take in his stomach for a moment too long, prompting him to say, “My appetite was appropriate when I was a growing boy. Now, as a man, things tend to grow a bit differently.”

He places a palm across the broad expanse of his midsection. There’s a strange humor in his voice. The Hunter feels an urge to reach out and touch Alfred’s stomach the way one would pet a possibly unfriendly cat.

“Ah, Alfred,” The Hunter says. “What I was saying before: you are an impressive hunter, yourself.”

They mean to get to the point soon. But the distractions are many.

“You flatter me, sweet Hunter,” he says. “Speaking of which -- is there dessert?”


End file.
